


three times jessica asked for help, and one time trish needed it more

by andibeth82



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: Jessica Jones sent a message to Trish Walker:holy fuck you actually responded.Trish Walker sent a message to Jessica Jones:who else would text me about needing help?





	three times jessica asked for help, and one time trish needed it more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resolute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/resolute/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy. :)

**1.**

 

_ so...i may be in trouble _

_ trish, are you there? _

 

“I said, hold on!” Trish barks the words at the phone lying beside her as it continues to ping noisily and then takes a deep, calming breath. She inclines her head, tossing the man sitting across from her a smile, settling back into professionalism.

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

Her companion blinks, slightly disoriented at the change of conversation. “Yes, well.” He slides his card across the table, clearing his throat. “As I was saying, William Morris is an agency that is fully committed to working with you and furthering your career. Of course, we can amend our representation agreements based on any questions you or your guardians may have…”

The voice carries on, but Trish zones out. Years of practiced and careful training allow her to tune back in at just the right moments; she nods and  _ hmmms _ and smiles and portrays all the aspects of listening carefully, even though she’s really not listening at all. At some point, she’ll have to call her mom and pretend to have some reaction to the meeting -- it’s not like Trish had been the one to set it up, anyway -- but for now, she’ll let her mind wander and let the boring man continue to pander his services.

Like the autograph hounds did whenever she walked out of the studio.

Like the drug dealers did when she snuck out for a walk, making the sacrifice of getting cat-called just so she could get her weekly fix. 

Like every single man has ever done when they’ve been in her presence, especially when they’ve realized they’re looking at  _ Patricia Fucking Walker _ in real life, and, oh my god, were those legs and that body  _ real _ ?

“...as I mentioned, Patricia, we would be honored if you’d consider us for representation. We truly think your talent should be elevated at the highest level.”

_ Don’t call me Patricia, _ she thinks as her phone buzzes again. She smiles cordially and extends her hand across the table.

“This has been a pleasure, Mr. Pattan. Thank you.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He shakes her hand firmly. “My contact information is on my card. Feel free to call me with any follow-up questions.”

Trish manages to keep the smile on her face until they part ways outside of the small cafe on Houston Street, and pretends to walk in the direction of home. Once she’s sure she’s far enough away, she fishes her phone out of her pocket and stares at it.

No more actual texts from Jessica, but instead a string of frowny faces. Trish sighs.

 

_ where are you? _

_ corner of chrystie/delancy _

 

Close, then. At least she wasn’t going to need to take ten subways to get somewhere, which wasn’t out of the question. Trish sighs and pulls up her hood, and starts to weave through the twisted downtown streets. She edges past tourists and young girls with fake Gucci bags, families with screaming children, and a few homeless men. When she gets to the designated corner, she immediately veers into the public park stretching across the intersection. It’s not hard to find Jessica -- whereas Trish spends most of her time trying to blend in, Jessica spends most of her time sticking out like a sore thumb -- and Trish rolls her eyes at the sight of her friend sitting on a bench, scrolling through her phone. She’s known Jess for years, and every inch of her body screams  _ no big deal _ .

“I thought you said you were in trouble.”

Jess looks up and grins. “I was in trouble. I was going crazy thinking about that dumb agent meeting that you didn’t even want to go to. I looked up the guy, and he seemed like a douche.”

“He wasn’t a douche,” Trish lies, crossing her arms. “Anyway, he bought me lunch.”

“Of course he did,” Jessica says, standing up. She’s still smirking. “Really, Trish, how  _ was _ that meeting?”

Trish opens her mouth to respond, to defend herself again, but she can’t ignore Jessica’s knowing smile.

“Goddammit, Jess.”

“Oh, admit it,” Jessica continues. “Your mom set up this meeting for you because she wanted to sell you out. I  _ know _ your mom, and I know that if you had any inkling of respect, you would’ve kicked that guy in the balls.”

“Kinda hard to kick someone in the balls when you’re in a public space,” Trish replies, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe you sabotaged me like that.”

“Like you wanted to sign with them anyway,” Jessica responds, looping her arm through Trish’s cocked elbow. “Admit it. I saved you.”

“You did  _ not _ save me.” 

“Sure I did. Admit it.”

“Fine,” Trish agrees sarcastically. “Sure you did.”

She knows that she can’t hide the genuine look of thanks that’s plastered all over her face.

 

**2.**

 

_ so...i may be in trouble _

_ trish, are you there? _

 

It’s been four days since Trish Walker had to do anything except wash her sweatpants, refill her glass of wine, and decide on what new book to read. And now, all of that was going to go out the window.

Because Jessica Jones -- fucking  _ Jessica Jones _ , as usual, couldn’t get her act together for more than five minutes to  _ not _ warrant a goddamn rescue mission.

“Not even a thank you,” Trish mutters as she pushes Jessica into the car. Her friend slumps against the window, face pressed against the glass, snoring quietly. Even from across the seat, Trish can smell the whiskey on her breath.

“Gonna take me home,” Jessica mumbles, and Trish snorts.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take you home,” she says, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. She doesn’t try to hide it because she knows Jessica won’t even register the irritated tone. “It’s fine, I wasn’t doing anything important today anyway.”

“I know. You got nothin’ goin’ on,” Jessica replies, her voice barely audible. Trish puts her lips together in a straight line and counts to ten, reminding herself that drunk Jessica, no matter how annoying, had considerably less of a filter than sober Jessica. It’s one of the many things on the list of “pick and choose your battles” that Trish has dealt with over the years.

“Puke in my car and you’re dead,” Trish replies as she turns the key in the ignition and prepares to pull away from the bar. 

“Thought I was dead cause I punched that guy,” Jessica slurs, groaning as Trish starts moving the car.

“That too,” Trish mutters, keeping one vigilant eye on her friend and one eye on the road. She’s less worried than she should be that Jessica is going to pass out and endanger herself, but she’s not entirely comfortable with ignoring her well-being entirely. Somehow, she manages to get them back to the apartment they’re sharing in one piece.

“Funny,” Jessica says with a loud laugh as Trish helps her out of the car. She squints against the sunlight, and Trish sighs.

“What’s funny?”

“Me.” Jessica points to Trish messily, poking her in the chest. “You. ‘Member when you were a druggie?” She laughs again, but Trish doesn’t return the sentiment.

“Yeah,” Trish responds warily. “Quite a change.”

Jessica falls silent as Trish leads her up the stairs of the apartment building to their fifth floor walk-up, somehow managing to get the door unlocked while making sure Jessica doesn’t fall over. When they get inside, she unceremoniously deposits her friend on the ratty couch that they’d gotten from a street fair a couple of years earlier.

“If you were still famous, we’d have a nicer couch,” Jessica grumbles, hair falling in her face. This time, Trish does laugh.

“We’d also have less cockroaches and an elevator building,” Trish reminds her, sitting down. “And I’d still be the one doing cocaine on my bathroom floor while  _ you _ were the sober one.” She places a hand on Jessica’s back, letting her hand form a comforting mold on her skin. “Thanks for texting me and letting me help you.”

“Course,” Jessica mutters, her voice tired and heavy. “Who else was gonna get my sorry ass?”

Trish doesn’t reply, instead choosing to sit in silence as she watches her friend sleep. It was a ritual of sorts when it came to watching over each other, and they’ve spent years coming to each other’s rescue for whatever reason -- a bad decision, too much of a good thing, overactive and abusive parents. But the more Trish lets herself think, the more she realizes Jessica is right.

It’s a ritual that they’ve at least traded off with over the years.

 

**3.**

 

_ so...i may be in trouble _

_ trish, are you there? _

 

Trish turns over and stares at her phone, blinking as the screen lights up the otherwise dark apartment.

Part of her doesn’t want to answer. Part of her wants to give Jessica what she’s given Trish for the past few years -- distance, the cold shoulder. Part of her hates that while Jessica has mastered the art of  _ fuck you very much _ when it comes to everyone who has ever shown her gratitude or friendship, Trish still feels too much of a pull towards a friend who she can’t ever really give up on.

_ “It makes you weak,” Dorothy used to tell her daughter when Trish was worrying about taking a part away from another girl she had befriended during auditions. “You don’t get famous by being weak, Patricia.” _

Trish sighs and reaches for her phone.

 

_ what? _

_ holy fuck you actually responded.  _

_ who else would text me about needing help? _

 

A knock at the window makes her jump, and when she comes back to herself, heart beating out of her chest, she realizes it’s Jessica standing on the fire escape. She looks like shit, but it’s the kind of shit that doesn’t come with drinking, Trish realizes, and that’s what makes her walk across the room and open the window.

“Rough night?”

Jessica doesn’t answer as she climbs inside. “I could use a drink,” she says when she gets her feet on the ground. 

Trish shakes her head. “Water,” she replies. “Tea, or coffee. No alcohol. And before you try, I put a new code on my liquor cabinet and you’ll never guess it.”

Jessica makes a face, but nods resignedly. “Whatever.”

She sits down on the couch and Trish walks into the large kitchen, trying to yawn herself awake. She takes out two mugs, two tea packets, and uses the instant hot water tab on the faucet to create two hot cups of chamomile.

“Rough night?” Trish asks again as she brings the mugs back to the couch. She gives Jessica a pointed look as her friend takes her cup in two hands.

“Yeah.” Jessica’s staring at the floor, and Trish carefully notes her familiar body language, the way she’s curled in on herself as if she’s trying to make herself look smaller. 

She scoots closer. “Ghosts are ghosts,” she says finally. “They can’t really come back and hurt us again, you know.”

Jessica looks up and tries to smile. “Jesus, that’s a fucking terrible pep talk, Trish.”

Trish laughs quietly and manages to smile back. “Honestly, Jess...you’re you. I didn’t think you needed a pep talk.”

“I’d take one from you,” Jessica admits, continuing to drink her tea. Trish smiles faintly and leans back on the couch, and in the dark space of the otherwise large apartment, they sit in silence, letting the comfort of their company say what they both don’t want to get into at two in the morning.

Jessica leaves an hour later. Trish can tell she’s still not quite okay, but she lets her go, because it’s been years since she’s tried to police Jessica’s behavior. When she leaves, the apartment feels too big again, empty and cold and dark.

Still, it’s the first time in awhile that Trish hasn’t felt entirely so alone.

 

**+1**

 

_ so...i may be in trouble _

_ jess, are you there? _

 

Jessica punches again, putting her fist through the wall of the old apartment. The wood splinters beneath her fingers as if it’s a collection of feeble, fragile bones, and she punches again.

It feels like she’s barely touching anything, the motion is so effortless she may as well be pushing against a cloud. But it makes her feel good to have something tangible to hit, to take her anger out on. She’d been proud of the fact that she’d found a place so abandoned and run down, a far cry from when she would take her anger out on everything around her -- her apartment, her car, her coffee maker, her roommate…

Trish.

She punches again, and tries to ignore the shrill beep of her phone. When she’s sweating enough that her hands hurt and her arms feel stiff, she stops, breathing heavily. Her phone lights up again, and she reaches for it.

She can’t remember the last time she talked to Trish,  _ to _ being the operative word. She heard her, every single day; she tried for awhile not to listen to her show but found that she actually felt progressively worse when she actively ignored it. It didn’t mean that she didn’t feel crappy or make fun of her programming on the regular, and she certainly never sought her out. 

But it’s not like Trish had made the effort to reach out to her, either. Jessica knows that not the fairest assessment because she’s the first person to admit she doesn’t make it easy for people to keep their loyalty. But when she tells herself that, she becomes angry all over again.

Trish, of all people, knew that -- knew  _ her _ . Trish should have been able to look past the bullshit and put in more effort than a few half-hearted attempts at phone calls and texts and door bangings. Which is why Jessica is surprised that she’s texting at all, because Trish stopped coming around less than six months ago.

 

_ what? _

_ holy fuck you actually responded.  _

_ who else would text me about needing help? _

 

Jessica smiles grimly as she sends the message. For a long time, there’s no response, and Jessica hates that she’s still so susceptible to her friend’s emotions. She hates how she can give everyone else, clients included, the cold shoulder. 

But Trish...Trish, she always walked back to like a sad, wimpy puppy.

 

_ Forget it. You’re busy. _

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, no I’m not,” Jessica says out loud, watching the message come in. She presses a button on the iPhone, enabling location services, and zeroes in on Trish’s tiny blue dot. She stares at it, furrowing her brow, and then grabs her coat from where it’s been lying on the dirty floor.

“How the hell did you know I was here?” she asks rudely when she gets outside. Trish is standing across the street and her face is covered by large sunglasses, a Yankees cap pulled low over her eyes with blonde hair spilling out around her cheeks.

“Lucky guess,” Trish replies. “You look good.”

Jessica snorts. “Was this some sort of baiting text to get me to talk to you again? Because I was in the middle of a fucking good workout, Trish.”

Trish shakes her head, lowering her head. “No. It -- I was wondering if you wanted to walk me home? If you’re not busy.”

Jessica is about to protest, to ask what the hell Trish was doing with her famous-girl life now that she needed fucking secret service protection, when she notices a shadow falling across Trish’s downward turned face.

No, not a shadow, Jessica realizes. A bruise. A large darkening bruise that colors most of her cheek and a smaller one above her eye, where her sunglasses don’t fully cover. Her hands form hard fists, and she suddenly wants nothing more than to punch whatever idiot dared to put their hands on her best friend.

“I’m not busy anymore,” she decides, putting her arm around Trish’s shoulders. They walk together slowly, measured steps in sync, and Jessica knows Trish expects her to stop at the street corner of her apartment -- if not her apartment block, or the front door.

Jessica keeps her friend close, and doesn’t let go of Trish until they’re safely inside.


End file.
